FROST

Woods, when dim and newly snown,

And while not so far widely known

(Though odd theories have appeared),

Shape a landscape all their own,

 

Their easy pastures strangely cleared –

If you will, unsouvenir’d –

Of mistaken strangers and their horses,

Who must think it frankly weird

 

That a woodland’s natural forces,

Left abruptly to their own recourses,

Might need an audience to show

Their sweeping, downy, dark resources:

 

We ourselves can stop, but snow

Continues if we stay or go:

We’re miles from being in the know –

 

But sleep as always, little ego,

Lovely, deep, and incognito.

 

NOTES ON FROST